


Ink It Up

by navyhurricane



Series: Dean's Angel of Death Adventures [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Angel of Death Reader, Angst, Anti-Possession Tattoos, Blood, F/M, Fluff, Flying, Tattoos, Wing Grooming, angel reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 15:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10281944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navyhurricane/pseuds/navyhurricane
Summary: Because (Y/n) has lost her Grace, she's also lost the ability to keep demons from possessing her body. She decides to get a tattoo....or tattoos.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Slight warning for blood: only cuz Dean gets hurt, the poor baby
> 
> I changed my username to navyhurricane, soooo yea. Fun stuff. Enjoy!
> 
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> ***LIL SPOILER BEWARE!! Scroll back up here when you see the three stars!!***
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> THIS IS YOUR TATTOO!
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> http://www.creemmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/arrow-compass.jpg
> 
> Pretend the circle in the middle is the antiposession tattoo- add flames if u want, but I won't be mentioning any sort of flames!!

   You stare unabashedly at your naked top half in the motel mirror.  The high waisted black leggings you wear are decorated with pink flowers, splattered in random patterns. Your white shirt and white sports bra are laying abandoned on the unnatural yellowish tile floor, and you look over your shoulder at your back, where your wings should be.

   That spell had worked, and now nobody could touch your wings if you didn't want them to. Your code word,  _celaverimus_ , is Latin for conceal. Oddly, the spell seemed to work if you reversed the word, or used the opposite. In this case, to make your wings visible again, it was  _revelabit_ , Latin for reveal. It was simple, and you quite liked speaking in Latin. It was the first language you taught yourself as an angel, with many other languages following after.

   The smooth expanse of skin should be riddled with scars and burns, but your angelic powers healed you before. Now, you're vulnerable, and you still can't believe that after all those years of instantly healing, you just ignored it. Every time you healed, you hadn't wondered if it would close fully, or melt back into your regular skin tone. It was just natural. You trace the bumps of your spine with your eyes, all the way down until it disappears under the waistband of your pants. Your bare feet squeak as you turn so you can look at your front.

   Before you became an angel, you had obviously finished puberty and all that. Your curves are hidden under the baggy shirts you wear, since modesty will always be something you keep with you. You run your fingertips across the dips in your collarbone,  and sigh. Over many millennia, you've seen how women have evolved with that help of plastics and surgeries. You've seen the types of women most men will go for; you still don't understand how larger assets or a smaller waist Is attracting. To you, it's just embarrassing and revealing.

   You huff once, and bend to pull your sports bra and shirt back on. Glancing back at the mirror, you relax as the sweater hides all proof of curves. It's better this way. 

 

            ~~~

 

   Dean and Sam stumble into the hotel room, Sam holding his brother steady before dumping his half unconscious on the bed. They had been taking care of a demon in town, and before Dean could stab it, the demon slashed Dean across the gut with his own knife. 

   "(Y/n)!" You're already grabbing the black thread and disinfectant, while Sam cuts Dean's bloody shirt off him. Dean groans, head rolling on the mattress. You glance across the room, and see red all over his abdomen. 

   "Sam, try to stop the bleeding." You hear fast steps in the bathroom, and see Sam press a large towel to Dean's skin.  He's got both hands in on it, blood quickly soaking through. You grab a bottle of whiskey and roll your sleeves up before scrambling onto the bed beside the oldest Winchester. "Keep it on there." You snatch the whiskey, and tip Dean's head up and dribble some into his mouth, but he spits it out. His hand comes up and shoves the bottle away.

   "Dean, come on-! This will hurt way less if you were just a bit drunk-!" You grapple with Dean for a few seconds, before  growling out a series of curses and setting your knees on either side of his head so your looking down his body. Your knee pins his hand against the bed, and you brace his head against your thigh while forcing him to drink. If this wasn't such a dire situation, this would be extremely embarrassing.

   Finally, the bleeding has slowed to a trucking ooze, and Dean is passed out on your lap. You sigh in relief, sharing a look with Sam as he stitches up his brother. Your fingers run through Dean's hair and across the side of his neck, soothing him in his pain induced sleep.

   Your fingers are slightly bloody, and tremble a bit when you look at the dark stitches that appear over Dean's skin. The wound stretches from just below his right to cage and down to his left hip. His jeans are slung low, and his entire top is bare, giving you a view of tanned, bloodstained skin. Out of pure embarrassment, you quickly skip over the trail of hair on his navel. You eye his tattoo instead, eyebrows dipping as you run a finger over it. In his sleep, Dean shivers and it reminds you that Sam is still in the room.

   "Sam, do I need a tattoo?" He stops smoothing the bandage over Dean's gut, and raises a brow at you.

   "Aren't you an angel?" You frown, and stare down at Dean's face. You brush your fingers over his cheekbones idly. 

   "I was. But without Grace..." You exhale shakily. "I am as vulnerable at a human. I am not protected by my Grace now." Sam nods, and continues applying the bandage. 

   "Well, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get a tattoo, since they can't be removed like a bracelet or charm can. It's honestly your choice." Your mind races at the possibility of the tattoo, where you would get it, and if you wanted to at all.

   In your lap, Dean groans and shifts. He reaches up and rubs his face, wincing when the movement strains the stitches. You yelp, and grab Dean's wrist, pinning it by his side. "You idiot, don't move!" Green eyes lazily open, glazed slightly from the whiskey you forced down his throats before. You glare down at him, and an impromptu staring contest commences. 

   "Dean, how do you feel?" Sam pats his brothers leg. 

   "Like someone tried to gut me. And then slammed my head into a wall. Fuck..." Dean goes to sit up, and you splay all your fingers over his back to help him up. His bare skin makes yours tingle where you touch, and it feels so right. 

   Sam slips off the bed; there's no room for three adults on it. He washes his hands in the motel sink, and grabs the keys and his jacket. "I'm gonna get some grub since he's awake. I'll be back in an hour, tops."

   "Get me pie!" With a hand on his wounded stomach, Dean still manages to demand his favourite pastry. 

   You breathe out slowly; you're feeling that adrenaline crash now. After making sure Dean is steady to stay up on his own, you walk around to your own bag for a new shirt. Yours is mottled with blood flecks, which are a striking red on the white fabric.

   Your bag is similar to the brothers; the duffel is smaller, black and has white zippers. A geometric pattern of white thread decorates it, instead of the boys plain camo colours. Now, you root around in it, searching for a moderately clean shirt. The only thing you can find is a loose grey crop top that looks like a chopped off sweater; when Sam and you had gone shopping, the lady at the mall had badgered you into buying it. The soft fabric is extra long in the sleeves, but shows off your midriff. The edges are frayed, ticking your fingertips and ribs when you wear it. Guess it's lucky your black and pink flowered leggings are high waisted.

   You make you way to the bathroom quickly; your shirt is slightly sticky on your skin and you really want to change. In your haste, you don't see that the door didn't close all the way...

   Dean watches you grab a new shirt, and he turns away to find something to drink within his reach. Seconds later, and he realizes he didn't hear the door shut.

   Turning back around, he finds about half a foot of space between the door and the jam, enough space for him to see right through and look at you. You obviously thought the door closed, and while turned away from the open door, crossed your arms over your body to grab the hems on the opposite sides. The bathroom is slightly to the right of Dean's bed, and the way the mattresses are positioned, he can see the entire bathroom when the door is fully open.

   Dean's eyes get bigger and bigger as your shirt rides up, exposing more skin. He sees the thick band of a sports bra, and heat flushes through his body. When you're on the road constantly with your little brother and an ex-angel accomplice, it's kinda difficult to get laid. The last time Dean left some one night stand was four months ago, and he's been frustrated the last thirty days. He can't resist one last glance...

   Your arms are above your head, fingers laced and stretching. Your spine is arched slightly under the _fucking_ _crop top_ , and he can see the curve of your chest. Your midriff is slightly muscular and the skin is pulled tight with the force of your stretch. The high waist leggings cover to just under your belly button, and shape the slope of your ass perfectly. You're too short for the leggings to fit properly, so they bunch up around your ankles. Dean can't help but think it's absolutely adorable, but the rest of you is undeniably sexy.

   You turn around, and Dean swings his head away so quick he thinks he just gave himself whiplash. He pretends to be searching for a beer and a shirt, digging through his bag but not actually seeing things. The shape of your body is burned into his mind. Fuck.

   "Dean, do tattoos hurt?" He turns around to face you, trying not to concentrate on the bottom of your rib cage. He grinds his teeth before he answers.

   "Kinda. Why?"

   You cross your arms over your chest, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. "I don't have Grace anymore. I would believe that means I am vulnerable to possession?" Dean doesn't know much about Grace, but he does know that it's what gives angels their mojo. He does think that you should get inked.

   "You want my opinion?"

   "If it's not trouble..."

   You lower your gaze almost shamefully, toying with the ends of the crop top. Your hair is up from when you threw it into a somewhat intact bun when Dean needed help, the hunter remembers that much. It's cute.

   "I think you should, just to make sure. Then, if your Grace somehow keeps the demons out, it'll always look sexy." Dean snickers to himself, revelling in the way your cheeks turn darker. Emotions are still new to you, and Dean always seems to get some sort of pleasure from introducing your to new ones, especially those that he can inflict himself. Get the ex angel drunk? We've got happy, angry, sad, quiet and rowdy. Catch you right as you wake up? Cuddly, blushing, and adorable. Find you as you're just nodding off? Pliant, sweet, and soft. All new to you, but Dean is determined to make them default things in your life.

   "...Where could I get one?"

 

            ~~~

 

   A bit of internet surfing, doodling, and excitement bursts later, you and the Winchesters are walking into a tattoo parlour. 

   You stare open eyed at the black walls that are designed to look at though somebody splashed neon paint on them; bursts of pink, blue, green, yellow and orange splatter them. There's a waiting area to the right, light grey couches arranged in a circle. The tables beside them are covered in magazines, and the television in the corner plays some sort of news network. To the left, the walls dip away to lead  somewhere behind the main desk area, where you can faintly hear the buzzing of needles. The floors are white and black checkered, spotless and so shiny you feel like you might slip on them. The lights are circular holes in the ceiling, bright and hard to look at. 

   "Hello!" A tall young woman materializes at the desk, her white tank top sporting the stores logo, Tanya's Tatts, and showing her tattooed arms. You make out a few flowers and large birds of prey in the mixture. "Can I help you?"

   "We have an appointment, for our friend? Under the name Richends...?" Sam motions towards you, and you see makeup lined blue eyes slide to you, and then the computer behind the desk. 

   "Uh...Alex Richends?" 

   Sam smiles. "That's her."

   The woman claps her hands together. "Perfect. I'm Maggie. We have you down for a tattoo...do you know what you want today?" 

   You nod, and pull out a flat piece of paper with the anti possession symbol inked on. Sam was able to find an exact replica of his and Dean's, so he had just printed it off at the library. You had asked for no flames, so Sam had Photoshopped them off. You hand the page to Maggie silently, trying to look as friendly as possible. It must work, because she grins and holds it up so she can see it. It makes you remember just how short you really are. The feelings of knowing that really doesn't help the nervous side of you. Damn it. 

   "Neat. Smaller or bigger?" Smaller. "Black or a different colour?" Black. "This might take an hour and a bit, tops? That alright?" You nod again, finding it easier than actually speaking. You catch makeup lined blue eyes drag slowly over the boys at your sides, and then back to you. A flare of jealousy sparks in them. "Do you want to take one of them with you?" Her tone isn't has happy as it was before, and you can't figure out why.

   "I'll go." Dean volunteers immediately, and the look he gives his brother leaves no room for argument. Sam barely holds in a chuckle, mock surrendering with his hands up. He waves to you, and wishes you good luck before walking out the door. The purr of the Impala follows soon after, and you know he's going back to the hotel to research or something. Whatever he does in his spare time.

   Maggie licks her lips, tongue catching on her lip ring. You almost wince; wouldn't that hurt?

   "Follow me, please." Maggie turns towards the left door, long tanned legs stepping out from behind the counter. The skintight black jeans seemingly painted on her legs make sure you can see every curve of her ass. She sways her hips a bit more than nessecary, and you realize it's a ploy to get Dean to ogle her body. You feel a stab of something in your gut, pairing up horribly with the jittery sensation already there.    

   She leads you just through the door, and then sharply to the right, her boots clicking on the tile. That must be why she's tall. After about five feet, Maggie turns into a room with one full wall and two half walls on the sides, complete with a curtain that reaches all the way around. There's a few chairs set around one large black reclining one, where you have to sit. 

   Maggie drops into a round chair with wheels the same time Dean drags a chair up right beside you as you settle. He smiles reassuringly as he traces little patterns into the skin of your hand. Your fingers twitch. 

   "Do you know where you want it?" You nod, and shift so that she can see the back of your neck. You pull up your hair, and point to a spot between your shoulder blades, right between where your wings would be. The tattoo will go over your spine, which is apparently not a too sensitive spot, but it's not like you haven't felt pain before. 

   Maggie hands you a hair tie. "Here. Tie it up." Her words sound distracted, and you sneak a glance to find the baby blue focused on Dean. You grit your teeth in frustration and whatever feelings bubbles in your gut.

   He's sitting where he originally was, flannel rolled up to show off strong forearms. He had obviously ran his hand through his hair sometime when you weren't looking, and was giving the same kind of look back at Maggie, his green eyes seeming to uncover every corner they could from where he's sitting. She's returning the look.

   Settling on your stomach and relaxing your head into the adjustable hole in the chair, you hear the snap of rubber gloves and a cool damp feeling spreads over your back. The sharp smell of antiseptic reaches your nose, and you wrinkle it in slight disgust. One of your hands is holding hair away from your neck. Another ointment is applied to your skin, and then you feel the thin layer of papery sheet that will make the outline of the tattoo appear on your skin. Your hand is gripped in Dean's, feeling like molten lava at the touch. It feels good.

   "I'm gonna start now. Don't move, 'Kay?" You squeeze Dean's hand once, and the buzzing starts.

 

            ~~~

 

   You leave the shop with a little smile on your face, instructions to keep the tattoo clean, and a piece of protective plastic taped over your back. It burns a bit, but you can't help smiling when you climb into the back of the Impala. Dean still hasn't come out yet, and you see Sam watching him through the glass window. You lean up on the seat, and peek over the tall mans shoulder. Your good mood diminishes drastically when you see Dean. "Oh..."

   Dean's got a hand on the girls hip, fingers skirting dangerously close to her ass. He's slouched over her, just enough to give him a dominant look while leaning against the desk, fingertips flirting with the waistband of her pants. Her hands are set seductively, one on his forearm and one trailing up and down his chest. You can tell she's looking at him through her lashes, perfectly curled and made up in makeup. 

   You're fingers tighten on the seat, and the throb On your back seems to move to the front of you, halfway between your heart and your throat. You make a small, pained noise, just loud enough for Sam to catch it, and slide back into your seat. 

   As Dean clambers into the front seat, Sam sends you a sympathetic glance in the review mirror. You don't know why he would look at you like that, but it must have something to do with the way your heart throbs.

   Dean's face is definitely happier, and you see him shove a slip of paper in his pocket before settling on the cushions. A phone number. A pang of emotion echoes in your chest, and you swallow thickly before staring out of the window. Looking at the passing cars and buildings is better than staring at Dean's face, no doubt enjoying the fact he's got a rendezvous later.

 

            ~~~

 

   Dean is off on his meetup.

   Sam is at the store somewhere.

   You're alone. Again.

   You feel completely and utterly useless. All you've been good for lately is helping with some easy hunts, and then they just had to go and spend money on your tattoo. You unconsciously rub a finger over the plastic cover. 

   It runs much longer than the small antipossesion tattoo cover should.

   After Dean had dropped you and Sam back at the motel and left for his hookup, you had begged Sam to go back into town and get another tattoo. He had agreed, and you went back to the same place, thinking of designs all the way in that strangers car. 

   Now, you have an arrow on your spine, joining with the anitpossesion tatto in the centre and continuing down your vertebrae. Thin and straight as can be, you saw the design on the wall and chose it to go along with your tattoo. ***See above notes for the site for the picture***

   Sitting on the brown beds duvet, the TV is on mute, playing some show that you could care less about. The clock is ticking rhythmically, and the sound of the AC is absent. The stupid motel doesn't have air conditioner on hot nights like this, and apparently the barest minimum of insulation, if the hot walls are anything to go by. You manage to sit still for about three seconds before leaping off the bed and ripping open your bag.

   Your leggings are replaced by a pair of deep maroon corduroys, tucking the slightly too long bottoms into a pair of dark outdoor boots. You almost tear your shirt off as your replace it with a tight grey spaghetti strap, skin tingling in excitement for what you know is going to come next. Your wings are already spreading, sheathed on another plane. 

   You scribble a quick note to Sam, leaving it on the table: _Be back soon._ Hopefully, he won't be too worried. 

   Peeking out the window, you spy for the car anywhere. Not finding it, you throw open the door and take off in a full out sprint across the parking lot. The moon hangs high in the sky, illuminating your way as you run around the back of the highway side motel where you saw the forest before. Tall, dark trees that will surely hide your wings.

   Your breath comes in short pants as you run further and further away, adrenaline rushing through your veins. You duck under a thick green bough, and narrowly avoid a little sapling on the ground. You leap over a fallen tree, landing quietly on the soft grass. All that can be heard is your soft exhales and the occasional sound of nature: a bird moving or a wind shifting the treetops. 

   Coming to a clearing, you finally stop. Your ponytail has come free, hair trailing down and framing your face. You spread your arms, exposing them to the sharp air, and breath in the smell of needles and sap. It smells so free, and reminds you of home. 

   " _Revelabit_..."

   You gasp in surprise as suddenly your wings appear. They melt into view, like they're drawing themselves into the air as colours of red and black. The weight doesn't change, but as you flex your shoulders, you can feel them move, more defined now then when they were tucked away, hidden. It tingles, and you shiver as the sensation rushes across your shoulders and down your spine.

   You let out what can only be desbribed as a purr, shuddering and shaking your wings to help free them of the nonexistent dust you feel like was collecting on the tops of your arches.

   Spreading your wings to full length, you almost moan as the underused muscles stretch, burning and feeling just short of mindblowingly amazing. You laugh childishly, and after staring up at the sky for a moment, give one hard flap of your wings, instantly airborne. The trees tickle the very edges of your wings, needles getting caught between the blood red ends.

   Beating your wings hard, you make it to above the treetops and let the wind guide you. Twisting and flipping, you tumble gracefully over nothing but empty air, giggling uncontrollably as the wind slips over your bare arms and through the spaces in your feathers. You almost forget about Dean and Maggie. Almost. 

   There's no other birds flying, but you have the moon and the stars to keep your company as you fly as high as you dare - just under 15,000 feet or so - and suddenly stop all movement of your wings.

   Wind whistles in your ears as you plummet towards the ground, your wings relaxed and pliant. You keep your eyes closed, living the feeling of falling deep in your gut. Air slips through your fingers, and your skin feels slightly damp from any moisture the low hanging mist has left on you.

   When you can sense the tops of the trees nearing, you gradually turn and straighten out your wings, gracefully soaring mere inches above the sharp tops that if you had continued falling for a second longer would have impaled you. The near death scenario makes you shiver, partly with fear and partly with the adrenaline rush you had just gotten.

   Maybe ten minutes later, when you're sitting on the top of the highest tree you could find, you decide it's time for you to return. You are basically human, and humans need rest and food. And water. And clothes. And to use the bathroom. God, how did you ever survive as a human before?

   As you land just behind the motel, you hear the hum of the Impala. Panting a little, you sprint as hard as you can into your room, slamming the door shut and crumpling the note off the table. You're sure the boys won't want you wandering around, and you don't know how they'll react.

   You glance in the mirror, and your dirty cheeks, windbliwn hair stuck with pine needles, and flushed skin stares back. Somewhere along the way, you protective sheet of plastic fell off.

   Your wings are in no better shape; little green meddles stick out of every place they can, pine cones are lodged right between your spine and wing bone, and there's no denying the same wind blown look your feathers have, the same as your hair. It's very uncomfortable, and even shifting your shoulders like crazy isn to helpung.

   You're just reaching up to fix it when the door bursts open, hitting the other wall. 

   "Sam, can you help me-"

   "Not Sam." 

   You stiffen at Dean's growl, and slowly turn to see him slam the door shut, rattling on its hinges. He roughly opens the fridge and grabs a beer before collapsing on the bed and popping it open with more force than necessary. His hair is slightly messed, and his plump lips are pinker than usual. It makes your stomach tingle. 

   He must not have actually looked at you, because you got no reaction to the wings when normally, he'd be fawning over every little twitch they gave. You don't move, settling for staring at him as he keeps his eyes closed, drinking deeply from his beer. His clothes are slightly rumpled, like he threw them on in a haste, and you spy a bruise on his neck. You frown.

   "Dean, are you hurt?" Forgetting about your wings, you walk over to him and turn his head with your hands placed on his jaw, staring at the circular mark. He definitely didn't have it before. You lean in closer, eyeing it and finding the edges around it red, like suction...

   "I'm fine, jeez!" At the same time Dean shoves your hands away, your cheeks turn red at the realization that that is, indeed, a hickey. Your frown turns deeper, a pang going through your heart at his angry tone. He's never spoken to you like that before...

   You flex your jaw against your teeth once. "A-...alright..." Turning away from him, you keep your eyes down all the way to the bathroom. Maybe he won't yell at you again if you don't bother him. But you need help with your wings...

   "D-Dean?"

   "Hm."

   "Could you possibly help me with my... my wings?"

   Green eyes snap up to meet yours, and then slide behind you. He definitely didn't see them before, based off the wide eyed, delighted look that sparks in his face. 

   He sets his beer down, slings his jacket onto the other bed, and scooches back before patting the duvet in front of him, sleeves rolled up. "C'mere. Let's get you all fancied up, hm?"

   You bite your lip, and reach up to fiddle with the gold earring. You've mostly forgotten about it, but the odd time it will throb and remind you that you are bound. "Are you sure?"

   He nods, and you carefully tuck your wings the best you can behind you and settle on the bed. Deans legs are spread out beside yours, basically straddling you. There's less than a foot of space between your back and him, and even less when he decides to shift up onto his knees. 

   "Alright. Relax a bit." You hear him rub his palms together, and then he starts gingerly pulling pine needles out of your feathers.

   The fan still isn't on, and there's no vehicles going by. The T.V isn't on, but you can just hear it in the next room over. The silence is almost stifling, not helping the warm feelings buzzing in your gut. The off time,  Dean leans closer and you can just feel his breath on your sensitive wings. You have to fight the shudder every time.

   "Hey, did you get another tattoo?" You stiffen and nod. You had actually forgotten about it, but now the full pain comes back, reminding you off the red skin and the way you lost the plastic cover. "Does it hurt?"

   "A little."

   Before the words even finish leaving your mouth, a cool miniature gust is blown onto your spine. You gasp, arching your back at the way it tickles the skin that connects your wings to your back, and how it feels on the tattoo site. His fingers are still in your wings, doubling the sensation. "Dean-! That tickles..." 

   Dean chuckles, and continues plucking the meddles out of your plumage. "I know, I know. I'm almost done." Minutes later, he combs his fingers through the layers of feathers, almost to the bone. You try to bite back the whimper, but the tail end of it slips out. Pleasure courses through your veins, making you feel hot. Luckily, Dean takes the sound as pain. 

   "Sorry!" He jerks his hands out, and immediately you long for his touch. The bed creams as he shifts. "I think I got all them, so why don't you go shower and see?"

   You slink off the bed, and Dean follows. Your belly still feels warm and tingly, and you know your cheeks are flushed the slightest. Your fingers tremble, so you clasp them behind your back, tucking them under your wings. 

   You give Dean a small smile, and with a burst of confidence, rock up on your toes to kiss him on the cheek. You kinda miss, though, your lips catching him on the edge of his jaw and tingling against his scruff. "Thanks, Dean."

   You escape to the bathroom, leaving Dean speechless. 

   Dean had gone out expecting to get laid, and he almost had guaranteed that. He was making out with Maggie in the doorway of her house, when her dick ex-boyfriend showed and interrupted. Long story short, she wasn't over him and kicked Dean out. But not before sucking that hickey on his neck.  That definitely didn't improve his shit mood, and he came home grumbling about relationships and people all the way home.

   He totally didn't expect to get to clean your wings, and to be kissed so tenderly. 

   Standing completely still, Dean reaches up and brushes his fingers over his jaw, where your lips were so recently. He smiles, and runs the hand though his hair.

   That was _way_ better than any hickey.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me if you see any mistakes, and thanx for reading!!
> 
> ANY PROMPTS FOR FUTURE FICS ARE WELCOMED


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